Shaerlyn

[tarsiz]

Original portrait by GothicQ: here.
Link to the in-game portrait: here.

Description
Shaerlyn stands around 5’9” (1,76 m) tall, slightly above the average of her sun elf heritage. She has bronze-tan skin, long blonde hair, and vibrant violet eyes. Her face bears the flawless features of her race and she carries herself around with elegance. She wears finely crafted garments in green and white tones under padded armor and carries a longbow with her at all times.

A newcomer in Cormyr, Shaerlyn is not yet comfortable with the multicultural environment of her new environment. Reserved, she does not speak much, but when she does, expresses herself clearly in a soft voice that is pleasing to the ear. When speaking elvish, her tone usually brightens with a variety of melodious accents. She rarely shows emotions, preferring to keep a neutral face. Patient and deliberate, she hardly rushes for anything – but can react quickly in combat when the situation commands it.

Origins
Shaerlyn was born in the elven community of Semberholme, in southwest Cormanthor, on Ches 24th, 1238 DR. The second child of the sun elf ranger Ithyl Al’Doreth and her husband Turel Morynven, she spends most of her early years in the limestone caves beneath the hills, where the young elves are protected and raised by the elders, while their parents fight the horrors still dwelling in the depths of the woods.

In 1251 DR, Ithyl and her patrol venture too close to the ruins of Myth Drannor and are slain by a marauding band of monsters. Distraught, Turel takes the decision to abandon Cormanthor and to head west towards the Retreat. After a year of grief, he leaves Semberholme with his two children on a rainy morning of spring. The long journey takes them close to two years, but, by the eve of Uktar 1253 DR, they reach the shores of Evermeet.

For the next century, Shaerlyn leads a sheltered life in the island capital of Leuthilspar, receiving extensive education on religion, history, and music. She is also trained in martial arts, showing an outstanding aptitude for archery, and, for a time, considers joining the military. These formative years are happy times for the young elf, who especially revels in long walks under the forests of the Island Kingdom. However, she thinks of her homeland, and, in the peaceful calm of the Retreat, marvels at the stories of the lost kingdoms of old.

In 1374 DR, the island is attacked by the forces of the Daemonfey; this leads to retaliation and the Crusade of the elves to retake Myth Drannor, spearheaded by the army of Evermeet, which includes her brother, Erlion. The opportunity cannot be passed on, and Shaerlyn sails back to Faerûn. Judged too inexperienced to take part in the combats, she participates in the adventure as an assistant healer and sees very little fighting.

After the victory, Shaerlyn spends another ten years in Semberholme, but the limestone caves of her infancy now feel small and oppressive. In the early months of 1385 DR, keeping only her bow and armor, she leaves the Dalelands and heads south to the realm of Cormyr.

[tarsiz]

Adventures in the Inner Sea

For as long as I can remember, I have loved the sea. I was but a babe when father took us across the Trackless Sea after mother died, but I remember the sounds and smells of the ocean quite fondly. I suppose he never expected us to cross it back.

After months of living in Cormyr, I realized I was longing for more. I had grown restless, always hunting the same creatures, scouting the same places, and treading the same roads. I needed a sense of purpose, something to prove to myself than there was more to life than slaying monsters for a coin or a thrill. Perhaps this is why I chose to enlist with the Freesails of Cormyr as soon as I heard of Captain Neckan Blake seeking new recruits to add to his crew.

Joining the Freesails was easy enough – I met Captain Blake and his lieutenants at Talbot’s Inn in Valkur’s Roar, along with other adventurers of the region. Once the captain had approved our request to join his crew, we had to swear an oath at the Starwater Keep of Marsember, where the Blue Dragons navy headquarters. I often wonder how I feel about such an oath. Was I committing myself to a foreign nation? Does it require me to renounce my allegiance to the coronals of Myth Drannor? Am I betraying my culture, and my people, by serving indirectly under a human king?

I do not have a response to this. I hardly see myself as a soldier, and I feel nothing but sympathy and kinship for the people of Cormyr, where I have now stayed for many months. If contributing to their peace and prosperity requires me to swear an oath, so be it. And after all, it is highly unlikely that our two nations should come to war.


The Tethys Sails
We finally set sail from Valkur’s Roar on the ninth of Kythorn. Our port of call was Palaggar, on the southern coast of the island of Prespur. The island lies on the western part of the Sea of Fallen Stars and is shared between Cormyr and Sembia.

(The drawing comes with inscriptions in both Espruar and Common scripts, in High Elvish and Common respectively)

That first trip was the occasion for me to get to know the crew and learn the job. Most other crewmates are experienced sailors; I chose to observe and mimic, learning as they did and helping as I could. While much needs to be done on a ship, tasks are fairly simple and repetitive, and after a few days at sea, we had quickly found our rhythm.

Most of the crew was new to the Tethys, aside from Captain Blake and his first mates, Yarrick and Jula. I had met the captain before: along with a group of mighty adventurers, he had helped me rescue my friends from a grim fate at the hands of the horrible troglodytes that nest in the Bramblewood. He is a good man and a good leader; and I suspect that he would die to protect any of us as surely as we would die to protect him.

Yarrick and Jula do not talk much, but they are hardworking and reliable – and devoted to the captain. There was also Gias and Clarke, whom I knew from before. Gias is as ever: as curious and eager to learn as he is efficient with shield and blade. Clarke still makes me uneasy, but he is assuredly someone I would rather have on my side in battle. I wonder if his casual, sardonic behavior is only a façade. The other two regulars of my shift are Jacob, a skald, and Jocelyn, a scout. Both are experienced sailors and efficient warriors. Cooper Vulpes, a mighty wizard from far Waterdeep, sometimes joined our group.


Seeking the Tower of Stars
Our first task was to find the wreck of the Snail, a Cormyrian ship that was carrying troves of gold. I understand she had sunk in the dangerous reefs surrounding Traitor’s Isle.

That grim island is home to the Tower of Stars, the prison-tower of a former Royal Mage of Cormyr. I am not exactly certain about the details, but Cooper seemed to think he had been convicted of regicide and exiled to the island, perhaps centuries ago. I remember old stories from home, wherein the high mages of Cormanthyr used to teach the wizards of the forest kingdom. Whether that particular mage received such education, I know not.

We were also tasked with finding an entrance to the Tower. After all this time, I wonder how they expect a human mage to still be alive. Although, I guess it should not be a surprise – powerful spellcasters often have unsavory ways of prolonging their existence, and little reluctance to resorting to such means.

We avoided the jagged reefs, rowed to shore, and followed a path up the cliff leading to the rocky outcropping where stands the tower. The massive building looms over the place, casting its long shadow over the island. We found the ship, wrecked in a remote beach cove between the cliffs. We took a passage descending through a series of half-submerged cave, fought against Sahuagins, freed a Sea Elf prisoner, and retrieved the coffers we had been sent to find.


Denizens of the Wayrock
Our second expedition took us further east, to the rocky desolate island known as the Wayrock. It is south of the coast of Impiltur, and we took a detour to avoid sailing too close to the Pirate Isles. It is home to an abandoned keep, which we were to explore.

Arriving at Wayrock, the gloomy sight of its sharp cliffs and the grey raging waters of the Inner Sea were ominous signs of what was waiting for us there, but we pushed forward. Only the quick reaction of Jocelyn prevented some of the crew from falling off while putting the skiff down. Fighting against the stormy weather, we made our way to a tiny sandbank, barely large enough to secure the boat.

We hiked up to the keep, discovering a series of fresh human footsteps on our way. Wary of what was expecting us at the ruins, we walked on steadily, but cautiously. Much to our surprise, the keep seems to have been vacated. There was nothing but silence and dust awaiting us in these halls, at least until we started to see the bodies. A horrifying slaughter had taken place there: terribly disfigured corpses were spread across, sometimes still lying between the furniture they had hastily moved around as temporary fortifications.

They attacked us at nightfall, just as we reached the top of the dungeon.

Swarming from all angles, the voracious Kythons unleashed their fury against our group in a hurricane of teeth and claws. They were coming out of every hole, pouring from the ground and the ceiling alike. We were killing them fast, but there was no end to them. So, we swung and hacked and shot our way out of this deadly trap. The beasts did not chase us to the boat, and we made our escape, shaken, but alive.

Ecological notes: Kythons

Kythons are nasty insectoid beasts with a grey-black complexion, hardy scales, sharp teeth, and claws.
• They hatch from eggs in vast numbers.
• Grow bigger and deadlier with age – at least 4 or 5 stages. Hatchlings are no more than 3 feet long, and we saw what seemed to be a Matriarch of close to 10 feet.
• Extremely resistant to elements, especially fire and lightning.
• The bigger ones get the ability to spit acid from a distance.


The Beacon of Sarr
Recovered and rested from our Wayrock expedition, we departed Palaggar on the 27th of Kythorn, heading to the island of Sarr. This journey would take us much closer to the Pirate Isles than our previous trips, so we proceeded with extra caution. Our goal was an abandoned lighthouse perched atop the island.

After our previous adventures, Sarr seemed more peaceful and welcoming than what we had been used to. We explored the place, uncovering what looked like an antique place of worship. The lighthouse was in ruins, with little of the original construction still standing. Amidst the rubbles, we found a mysterious item shining with blinding light. A golden cube adorned with silver cylinders; this “beacon” was identified as a Mulhorandi artifact. I must admit I know nothing of that culture, too foreign and too remote.

We had barely left the tower when the pirates attacked us. They had landed on the other side of the island and ambushed us as we got out. We fought our way down to the beach, a bloody closed-quarters affair during which many of us were lucky to escape with our lives.

The pirates continue their assault on the beach and chased us at sea while we made our escape back to Palaggar. We found ourselves in a heated naval battle, supported by a war ship of the Blue Dragons against a fleet of pirate ships. The fight was long and arduous; we fired cannons, ballistas, and fire arrows at them. We defended against their boarding attempt, finishing off their captain and drove them away. On that victory, exhausted, but relieved, we made our way back to Palaggar to report our success.

[tarsiz]

Wearing the Purple

Ancient Foes
Shaerlyn bolted to the side, but not fast enough to dodge the burning rock that hit her on the shoulder. Wincing under the throbbing pain, she rolled to hide behind a stone sarcophagus. With her free hand, she uncorked the lid of a healing potion. She gulped the potent mixture and risked a quick glance behind her as she felt the warm liquid rapidly mending her wounds.

Borghild was on the other side of the room, protected against the barrage of boulders by a shimmering field of pink energy. Her face, usually calm and serene, was tense with intense concentration. Hovering in the center, between Shaerlyn and her, was a floating skull. Its ancient bone had turned yellow with the decay only centuries can bring and was adorned with jewelry and arcane runes. Deep in its eye sockets burnt a foul red fire, fueled by hatred and madness.

The creature, in between bursts of malevolent cackling, was bombarding the young Tempuran with a relentless assault of deadly spells. Rays of green light and flashes of lightning bolts were flying across the room in a dazzling display of arcane might. Borghild, however, was holding strong. Hardly moving, the plate-clad sorceress was deflecting the attacks of the beast with counter charms of her own, dispelling most of the malicious curses before they reached her.

Shaerlyn marveled at the impressive spectacle but could notice cracks forming in her friend’s wards. One spell at a time, the monster was slowly eroding Borghild’s defenses. She would not be able to contain it much longer. It was time to draw its attention.

She reached for her quiver, grabbing the birch wood shaft of an arrow sanctified by Sehanine’s blessing, and rose from her hiding spot. In a fluid motion, she notched, aimed, and released, sending the projectile flying straight at the demilich. It shattered against the ivory skull, producing a jet of white sparkles. The monster turned its gaze towards her, sending chills down her spine as her eyes met its burning glare.

She jumped on the sarcophagus, nimbly dodging a volley of scorching hot magical darts, and kept moving. She was shooting while running, firing precise shots at the creature. Her arrows were barely making a dent in its shields, but she was patient.

Noticing motion at the corner of her peripheral vision, Shaerlyn ducked… just in time. An immense skeletal arm swung just inches over her head, crashing hard on the wall behind her. The last of the lich’s giant bone golems had cornered her. Its empty eye sockets looked at her emotionless as the creature raised its arm for a final blow.

“Borghild – golem!” Shaerlyn shouted. In desperation, she released an arrow at the monster and slid on the ground between his legs, narrowly avoiding a deadly slam. The distraction had given the Northerner enough time to recuperate. Hammer in hand, radiating with divine energy, Borghild shone, standing tall and mighty, like a vengeful Valkyrie.

“Tempus!” Letting out a loud battle cry, Borghild swung wildly towards the golem, shattering its rib cage in a single powerful blow. The creature collapsed, the foul magic that had kept it together, vanquished.

Seeing its last remaining minion destroyed, the demilich let out a terrifying howl. It turned to the young sorceress and unleashed a new barrage of wicked spells. She reacted in an instant, muttering counter charms as quickly as she could, but to no avail. Surging from the ground, a gigantic phantasmal hand made of black and red necromantic energy grappled her, holding her between its enormous digits. Her face turning red under the effort, Borghild pushed with all her strength to free herself, but the hand hardly budged.

“I cannot move – do not die!” She said to Shaerlyn, struggling against the crushing force of the giant hand.

A cold shiver took Shaerlyn’s heart. Seeing the ever-confident Borghild panic seemed oddly more terrifying than facing the wrath of their centuries-old opponent. Her battle-hardened reflexes took over, and with cool determination, she lined up shot after shot, slowly whittling down the monster’s defenses with a hail of blessed arrows.

The creature retaliated, chasing the Elven spellarcher and firing more curses at her. Unaware, it slowly drifted closer to the giant hand that was still holding Borghild – exactly where Shaerlyn wanted it to be.

“By Tempus – die.” Mouthed Borghild as she reached out, extending her arm as far as the grip of the giant hand enabled her to. As her fingers brushed the floating skull, she released Tempus’ divine energy. The monster let out a horrible cry of pain and shattered in pieces. The hand disappeared, and Borghild, released from its clutches, fell to the ground.

Shaerlyn strode towards her and helped her to her feet. Although bruised and battered, Borghild was beaming with an excited smile. The battle was over.


Legacy
Sitting with her back against the crenellations of the Thunderstone Keep, Shaerlyn opened her eyes and gazed at the village below. It extended to the bank of the Thunder River. Beyond, the looming shape of the Hullack Forest casted an imposing shadow over the water.

Her legs lazily dangling over the edge of the stone wall, she was enjoying one of the – rare – rest days her work with the Royal Corps allowed her. She sometimes marveled at how far she had come in the span of just over a year. She had been nothing more than a greenhorn, when arriving in Cormyr. A decent archer with a working knowledge of magic, perhaps. But the skirmishes against Kobolds of her beginnings had quickly turned into epic battles with some of the most dangerous foes of Faerûn. She had become fitter, sharper and more powerful than she would ever have hoped.

Power is both a responsibility, and a duty, she thought. Those with enough power at their fingertips to topple the likes of dragons and demiliches had to exercise the utmost caution in wielding it. Yet, those who could, owed it to those who couldn’t, to take these difficult fights, and risk their lives for the protection of the greater number. It was not an easy road, and one where one may easily lose track of what was important.

At times, she wondered about the legacy she would leave behind. Her mind, her body, and her training had shaped her into the deadly archer she had become. She was very good at killing things, leaving in her wake an endless trail of monstrous bodies – Kobolds, Goblins, Orcs, Ogres, Giants… even some of the mightiest undead, and a few dragons. She looked at her right hand in the light of the sun. Her hardened skin was marred with countless calluses, cuts, and blisters – the product of enough bow shooting to fill three lifetimes. She sighed. One should use the skills the Seldarine had granted them, she thought. The killing was not mindless, and she did so to protect those who could not fend for themselves.
Perhaps that would be her legacy.



(Overdue) One year update.
Description
Shaerlyn stands around 5’9” (1,76 m) tall, with a lithe and athletic body type. She has bronze-tan skin, long blonde hair, and vibrant violet eyes. Her face bears the flawless features of her race, and she carries herself around with elegance. She can usually be seen wearing the purple uniform of her station – a Swordmajor in the Royal Corps of Monster Hunters. Her armor is light, obviously well-made, and impeccably maintained. She dons light jewelry – typically tree-shaped earrings – and proudly wears a pair of knee-high white boots.

Shaerlyn expresses herself calmly and fluently in common, with a hint of accent that betrays her as a non-native speaker. She is soft-spoken, and rarely raises her voice. Her face is serene and usually neutral, occasionally breaking in a warm smile. In Elven, her tone usually brightens with a variety of melodious accents and a dry sense of humor.

In battle, Shaerlyn is a formidable archer who employs spellsongs to enhance her abilities. Her combat style, based on speed and agility, consists in supporting her teammates with a relentless barrage of arrows. She carries several bows of exquisite make with her but will be seen most of the time using an Elven-made bow of dark yew wood with a polished finish and a glistening golden bowstring.

[tarsiz]

In Service of King and Kin

From the top of the Freesailors’ Tower overlooking the harbor of Palaggar, an elf observes the ballet of ships entering and departing the bay. It is a hot summer day on the Isle of Prespur, and even at the late hour, the sea winds act as a welcome cooling breeze.

The elf sits at a desk by the window, her long blonde hair and her golden armor gleaming in the soft orange light of the sunset. She holds a quill in her callused hand, contemplating a blank, unfurled parchment scroll. For most things, she is slow and deliberate – but tonight, words seem to elude her more than usual.

Eventually, the last Cormyrian ship to enter the harbor docks safely. She lets out a small sigh. The letter is not going to write itself. Murmuring a cantrip to revive the ink that has long dried in the pot she keeps by her side, she dips her quill in the liquid and prepares to write.

--

“Dear mother,

Much has happened in Cormyr since my last letter, even though it has only been a couple months. My duties have kept me much occupied lately, yet I must not neglect my writing.

Summer has finally reached Cormyr, bringing a welcome warmth and longer days. I’ve always found that time of year to be conducive to introspection, as I put my thoughts in order and reflect on the events of the past year, the progress of my goals and my hopes for the times to come.

Humans mark the years using this calendar whose names have been decided centuries ago and attach prophetic value to these names. Blue Fire, Halflings’ Lament, Emerald Ermine… Those do not hold much significance to me, and I suspect people only remember years marked by lifechanging events. We remember times of crisis, for they reveal the kind of person we are. I shall remember the Year of the Halflings’ Lament as the Year of the Lucky Star, and the Year of Emerald Ermine, as the Year of Kin and Kingdom.

The strife between the Sy’Tel’Quessir of the Mistwood and the city of Valkur’s Roar has weighed heavily on my conscience for the better part of the year. It broke my heart to witness the destruction wreaked on both sides for what initially seemed an almost trivial disagreement. It saddened me to see the people of the Wolf’s Wood Mists feel they had no choice but to resort to blind aggression that would only lead to the annihilation of their entire tribe and culture. My dear Kiraden toiled night and day to bring this to a peaceful resolution – but even this was bittersweet, for we both fear it will only delay the inevitable death of the tribe, and its way of living. How tragic is it, that a clan centuries old, with their own culture and legends, be forced to adapt or die, through no fault of their own? Yet perhaps that is simply the way of the world. Change comes, whether we like it or not, and we must evolve with it.

Humans call us Elves, and think that our pointed ears, longevity, and common language make us all the same. Yet, and to my own shame, the ways of the Sy’Tel of the Mistwood feel more alien to me than the culture of most human nations I am familiar with. They care not for sprawling cities, ambitious architecture, nor complex books of art. Their way of living is simple, but not unrefined. They have traditions and history, and I only wish I could have known them better. Perhaps I could have earned their trust, and contributed more than I was able to during the crisis.

Prevalent during that time was my frustration of feeling powerless; other duties with the Corps kept me traveling the realm. I couldn’t be present to defend the city against the renegades who allied themselves with dragons, and I couldn’t participate in the diplomatic effort to resolve the crisis. It made me question my own motivations and reasons for joining the Royal Corps: if not to act as a bridge between Humans and Elves in Cormyr, then what for? I saw Kiraden – whom I had no small part in steering in the same direction – wrestle the same doubts. There were moments where I thought my oath, and my king, would call upon my steel to fight our own kin. I questioned the wisdom of my choice, and my place in the Purples. Those are still doubts I carry with me, but I have learnt to accept they are what make us grow.

The past year has brought me to question and challenge what I thought to be well-established rules of the natural world. There is an Orc in Cormyr with a vision and a plan for the future of his race, that does not include a perpetual war with the civilized races of the realm. And it is perhaps unfair of me, not to include his own people under that umbrella, as their culture and honor seem so far remote from the brutish and violent Orcs I have fought my entire life. In many ways, and while they couldn’t be more different, they remind me of the Sy’Tel of the Mistwood, marginals seeking their place in a human-dominated realm.

It is strange to be asked to hold fire in front of children of the One-Eyed. It is stranger, still, to be asked to make peace and to protect them. Our founding myths paint their god as a cruel tyrant, who hates us with a fiery passion since the Protector took his eye. How could the worship of such an evil being not constitute an insurmountable hurdle to the lasting peace Chieftain and King desire? It was Xandy who opened my eyes on the matter, with a suggestion so daring I am hesitant to put into words on these pages. She said, that to protect her brood, if the survival of her entire species was at stake, a mother would spare no sacrifice to ensure the survival of the fittest of her spawn. What if the One-Eyed exhorted his people to be ruthless, cunning, and strong, only because it is the only way for them to survive in a world so hostile to them?

I cannot claim to comprehend the divine, nor the relationship between a god and their followers. Yet if such a connection worked both ways… and we showed the Orcs forgiveness, openness and trust were a possible way to thrive, would it change them? Would it change what One-Eyed stands for?

For as long as I live, I shall not forget the face of the Orc herald Turgamika when we escorted her to the city of Arabel. The people of that city suffered much at the hands of the same horde who now wishes peace with Cormyr. They would have none of it and fight the King’s will every step of the way. We protected the herald as we waded through an angry mob throwing night soil and rotten vegetables at us. When we made it to the theatre, Turgamika was at my side. In that moment, and for only a second, she was not the monster our stories tell us to fear and destroy. She was lost, and afraid. A scared, young girl who did not understand. I had been that girl before, and for the first time, I felt kinship to an Orc.

I know not whether that Urbuchek is truly special, and conventional wisdom dictates lasting peace is impossible with the Orcs. Yet I feel in my heart that we ought to try our hardest to make it work. It is our duty to this realm, and to the generations of unborn children who could live in a world where the threat of a destructive war is ever so slightly lesser.

The past year has also been a year of improvement and challenges to overcome. With Borghild, we have ventured Cormyr through and through, fighting monsters that would give pause to all but the most experienced of adventurers. I have honed my skills, both as an archer and as a bard, in the everlasting quest for self-betterment.

It seems almost futile at times, to keep training this hard, when we have become almost peerless in our respective crafts. Yet it is the same reason that, time and time again, finds us in front of the sinister gates of Rivior’s Keep. I embrace the challenge, and strive to become a better version of myself, day after day. There are many who do not understand why we brave the immense dangers of that foul place. Why bother, when there is adventure, treasures, and glory to be found as surely elsewhere, for a far lesser peril? My reply is always the same: because it’s there. Only does the sternest of challenge truly reveal one’s mettle, when our life and our friends’ is on the line. The greater the adversity, the greater the reward. It is only by seeking and overcoming these perils that we move forward.

There is still much I wish to accomplish in Cormyr. Erlion wrote of the wonders of Aglarond and the warm welcome he received from our kin of the Yuirwood. There are days where I envy his freedom and marvel at the beauty of the world he explores. There are days where I wish I could join him overseas, free of care and free of the worries that paralyze my mind. But, mother, I am not ready yet to close this chapter, and in my heart, I know Cormyr holds the key to our reunion.

Yours always,
Shaerlyn”

--

After signing her name in flowing script, she lifts the quill from the parchment, and glances outside. It has been dark for hours, and the faint light of the moon creates pale wavy reflections on the surface of the water. The once bustling port has gone into slumber, with only a few sentinels still keeping watch on the walls and towers.

She stretches and reads the letter a few times. Satisfied, she rolls the parchment up very tightly, and carefully uses a thin blue ribbon to tie it up. She reaches for a satchel at her side, sets it on the table, lifts the buckles and opens the bag. Inside are hundreds of similar parchments, rolled up and bound with ribbons in blue, white and green colors. Hundreds of tightly packed letters, sealed and unsent.

Carefully, she picks a spot in the bag, and gently tucks in the letter she has just finished. It rests quietly among the others, undistinguishable from the rest.